


Oh, You're So Disarming, Darling

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 03:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11819928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: Sehun’s smile is shy still, but striking, disarming. Andoh. Oh no.





	Oh, You're So Disarming, Darling

**Author's Note:**

> mention of past suho/irene and fictional het kaibaek
> 
> my attempt at slice of life, title a modified quote from the national’s “apartment story” but not nearly as heavy or sad

Joonmyun balances his canvas tote bag on his shoulder. It's laden with groceries—too many considering he lives on the 3rd floor—and he kicks his knee up to lift it higher, stumbles forward as he struggles to open the building door. It creeks in his hold, and Joonmyun opens it with his hip, braces himself for the stairs.

Joonmyun lives in apartment 301.

He has for five years, started his third semester of college. Through 4 roommates, three goldfish, two jobs, one live-in-girlfriend. He lives alone now.

He's the ideal tenant, his landlady has proclaimed on multiple occasions. Quiet, friendly, always on time with his payments. Doesn't cause a stir. Lose his key. Break any of the apartments amenities. He's self-sufficient, too. Reliable. _Neighborly_.

Perfect, as a result, for greeting new tenants. Making people feel welcome. Helping them acclimate to the atmosphere.

And oh yes, the new neighbor boy.

It has been 4 days since he'd moved in, making too much noise last Saturday, stomping his way up the stairs, but still shushing his loudly animated friend, exacerbating Joonmyun's hangover. The walls were thin enough, Joonmyun's senses sensitive enough for him to hear the neighbor's giggle, alternately his curse as he'd set up his apartment. Not many boxes by the sound of it.

Joonmyun, maybe if he hadn't been hungover, recovering in the aftermath a very, very intense party session to celebrate his promotion, maybe also if he also hadn't resented how chipper and _young_ neighbor boy's and neighbor's boy's friend's voices had sounded this early in the morning, maybe he would have helped. Should have helped. Has, in the past.

Chanyeol, the Woos, the Dos before then.

It’s the neighborly thing to do.

Joonmyun spares a glance at the mailbox as he shifts the tote bag higher, ramen crinkling, bananas and bread smushing. The mailbox is too jammed, overflowing, and Joonmyun has to set down his bag to retrieve the mail, grimacing as pushes the broken lock. He gropes inside for 301, 302.

Mostly advertisements on neighbor boy's end, Papa Johns and Walmart, super market flyers addressed to "A Valued Customer." But bills for Joonmyun. Water, electricity, phone, internet. A credit card offer from his bank. A post card reminder from his dentist to set up a new appointment.

Joonmyun twists his body, holds the bulky papers between his chin and shoulder as he struggle-steps up the stairs.

This apartment complex, it's lowlit, tucked away, secluded. Broken into several wings, 6 apartments a section. It's affordable, cozy, with a pool, located in a good neighborhood, the flyers had said. Close to two major grocery stores, the post office, the elementary school, the bus station. There are laundry facilities, too. A nice lounge with couches, a vending machine in the main office.

Nice, nice, even if Joonmyun is struggling not to wheeze as he walks up the stairs. No elevator, but good for his ass, his calves, he reasons.

The neighbor boy answers on Joonmyun's first flailing knock. Doesn't give him a proper chance to set down the groceries, tuck the mail beneath his arm. But Joonmyun still catches himself in time to wear his brightest, most dazzling smile. Client wide, crinkling his eyes. He is more than mildly pleased when it seems to have its desired effect, the boy blinking rapidly as if he's been charmed, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, too.

And he's older than he sounds, or at the very least looks it, this Valued Customer, this new neighbor. He's wearing sweats, messy bedhead, a loose muscle tee, socks. He's tall, lanky. And oh okay, he's hot, too. In a lazy, slow shifting kind of way, stepping in front of an open box.

"Hello," Joonmyun greets.

"Hello," the boy—man, really—returns.

“I'm—" Joonmyun motions, nodding towards his door, right next to the man's own. "Right there. Right next door. Your neighbor. I just wanted to say "hello." I'm kind of a part of the welcome committee here. At least for this wing of the complex. I was supposed to greet you earlier, actually.” Joonmyun feels his eyebrow pinch at his own oversight. "They'll probably throw a party for you later this week, give you a chance to meet others. The other wings, the people there are a little younger. College kids."

The boy's nod is stiff, oddly jerky, but he’s smiling still. Charming still. “Okay, thank you."

"Anyways, these are yours," Joonmyun offers, extending his hand. "My name is Joonmyun by the way. James." And the boy's eyes flicker up to his from beneath his dark, dark lashes. And he really is attractive. So, so tall.

"Korean?" he asks, and Joonmyun nods, smiles.

“Me—me, too. Sehun. Oh Sehun. Sometimes, sometimes Seth. I’m 23,” he supplies after a beat. An invitation. "Are you—hyung?" he tries, and a part of Joonmyun's heart swells at the familiar but rare—so very rare—endearment.

And Joonmyun feels his face melt into something more genuine. “Yes, ah, my _dongsaeng_ ," he grins. "Feel free to tell me if you have any problems. I’ll take care of you as the hyung."

Sehun’s smile is shy still, but striking, disarming.

And _oh_. Oh no.

 

Sehun upsets Joonmyun’s mat 2 hours later, mid-Golden Girls rerun, hummus dip snack. His knocks are shy, soft, like his smile when he greets Joonmyun anew, and he’s cradling a plate of slightly burned cookies. “Oh Sehun,” he reminds him. And on the plate he offers, there are dancing ducks, beneath the too-crispy chocolate chip cookies he’s baked. The oven, he—to be honest—wasn’t too sure how to work it, and he had to wrangle the cookie mix out of one of the boxes. But they’re new neighbors, right? And he knows it’s late, but he hoped this was a good enough welcome gift. Also did Joonmyun _hyung_ know any good Korean restaurants around here, Indian if the Korean ones were too far.

Joonmyun knows 2, steps into his apartment for a post it to write it down, and Sehun lingers in the doorway purposelessly, filling the silence with chatter as he reveals that he’s new to the city. Living alone for the first time in his life, he also supplies. Next week, he’s starting his first real job. Preschool teacher. He’s excited, but a little nervous.

Thanks for the info, hyung. He’s glad they’re neighbors.

 

And Sehun, he’s a familiar presence soon enough. A strident alarm clock, a muffled TV, a shy passing greeting in the hallway. An out of Joonmyun’s way trip to the grocery store, the nervous nervous flutters of precarious attraction at least on Joonmyun’s end.

"This is delayed," Joonmyun says that Friday, apologizing as he bows. Ramen, toilet paper. Tradition. A reminder and invitation again. And maybe Joonmyun misses Chanyeol more than he’s let on, let himself admit. Maybe, maybe Joonmyun needs to be hyung once more.

Sehun grins at him, eyes crinkling. He's leaning against the door jamb, limber body tilted just so. And Joonmyun’s allowed a brief look inside. Appraising the sight of too many boxes still, shifted now towards the corner of the room, overflowing and open. There’s a coffee table, too, an old TV set, a bookshelf, a bulletin board. Number sheets and crayon drawings pinned to the wall and refrigerator.

He’s wearing a tank top again, beneath the unbuttoned, rolled up, crinkled rainbow speckled mess of his white button up. His pale forearms are streaked in blue, purple, pink, orange. His fingertips are lined in orange.

“Finger painting,” Sehun says. He grimaces as he misinterprets Joonmyun’s gaze on the sharp jut of his collarbone. “Occupational hazard.”

Preschool teacher, Sehun had divulged. And Joonmyun can see it, almost vividly in fact, the way that Sehun would fit in the classroom, long lanky legs folded beneath him, his knobby knees poking out sharply as he coaxed his students to sit crisscross applesauce. His pants straining as he squatted to help them fingerpaint. His voice pitched high in affection.

It’s amusing, endearing.

“How is that going?”

“It hasn’t started,” Sehun sighs. “I’m still volunteering, but I’ll get my own class next Monday.” Sehun shifts restlessly, hesitates. “Hyung,” he says after a beat. “I’m so…” His confession trails off before it can be fully-formed.

“Nervous?"

And Sehun’s shoulders rise and fall with it. He bites his lower lip hard but nods. Pauses before speaking. “Terrified."

Joonmyun pauses, too, looks up at him—why is Oh Sehun so _tall_ —before “Do you maybe want to talk about it? Do you want to get...?”

Sehun shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine. I just—Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for the offer.”

 

Welcome committee member that he is, Joonmyun helps hang up the flyers for that weekend’s welcome party. They’re goldenrod yellow, use Verdana 12 point font, are taped to both the bulletin boards around each wing and to each individual door too. It’s an attempt to impress the point.

It’s been a while since they’ve had a new tenant.

It’s a potluck. They’ll rent out one of those bouncy castles for the kids, provide hotdog links, burgers, free entertainment in the form of the building manager’s aspiring DJ son Yixing. The more the merrier, the bottom half reads. Let’s have a proper _Mountain View_ welcome.

It starts at 5PM.

Sehun shows up early, helps set up the tables. He’s dressed better this time, maybe even to impress. Tight jeans, a red button up, his hair styled back. He brought a guest, the friend that had helped him moved in. And he’s older than he sounds, too. Or at the very least looks it. Handsome and tall and vaguely off-putting, he remains plastered to Sehun’s side, letting out the occasional sibilant whisper, deprecating, unsatisfied. Possessive and petulant, if the persistence of his pout is anything to go by. “I’m humoring you,” Joonmyun overhears as he flips the hotdogs on the grill, squints disdainfully into the smokey air. “But I don’t want you to get too attached,” he continues, reaching for a bun, sparing Joonmyun a smile and a soft _thank you_ , “You know considering the inevitable."

And Sehun pouts, too. Protests in an equally petulant whine.

Joonmyun watches them warily after that. He bequeaths cheeseburgers upon the Kims, the Smiths, the Garcias, before procuring his own, plopping down on a lawn chair. He's judging still as he takes his first bite, but he’s mollified in part when Sehun's friend seats himself across from Joonmyun, introduces himself with a sunny smile. “Your Sehun’s neighbor?” he starts, "the one with the welcome mat, right?"

Joonmyun nods around a hotdog, swallows. “Yes. 302."

“The _hyung_ ,” Tao teases. Joonmyun raises an eyebrow, and Sehun makes a sound of protest. “Sehun says I don’t count because I’m not Korean and not fit to be one, regardless. But are you?” He deliberates for a beat, and Joonmyun laughs, squares his shoulders. “Yes,” he decides after regarding him for a long, long moment, expression less teasing, more solemn and appraising. “Definitely, yes. Take good care of him in my absence, _hyung_. Forgive him his kpop obsession and penchant for singing in the shower. I hear the walls are thin."

Sehun attempts to clap a hand over Tao's mouth, misses, and Tao only continues on bemused. Sehun’s inability to cook. His penchant for crying during children’s films. His awful, awful crush on Miranda Kerr. The fact he can’t sleep without his stuffed toy Pinkeu Pinkeu.

Tao runs out of fodder soon enough, though, or feels he’s humiliated Sehun enough. And he asks about Joonmyun’s job instead, voice laced with genuine interest, engagement.

He’s charming enough, disarming enough for Joonmyun to relax his stance, melt back into the hard plastic chair with a low, lazy smile.

The music Yixing is supplying, it’s not that bad, relaxing, dreamy and soft in the lazy thrum of the fading August sun, and they fall into something easy afterwards.

“Take care of him,” Tao reminds Joonmyun as he leaves, and Sehun grumbles, takes a murderous sip from his Coke Zero.

And Joonmyun repeats his earlier offer. Anything at all. Anything he needs.

 

And over the next two weeks, Sehun is still adjusting, obviously so. To his new job, his new apartment. And he _does_ have problems, issues that need addressing, Joonmyun’s intervention. But Sehun doesn’t come for Joonmyun's help. And Sehun, he's a series of cursed complaints, shuffling feet late at night or early in the morning.

He leaves his door open some nights, one of those child locks in place, explains shyly—always, always shy whenever he chances to speak to Joonmyun, skittish and flushed—that he lets his guinea pig run free, adjust to his new apartment, too.

And Sehun on those nights, the nights of open doors, he’s the smell of burnt ramen, the muffled vibration of bass, a harsh strip of fluorescent light on late nights, the telltale skitter of tiny, tiny claws on varnished hardwood. The occasional wave in Joonmyun’s general direction as he curses his cable box, his oven, his refrigerator.

 

And it’s only by chance, really that Joonmyun ever has cause to help.

Empty laundry basket balanced on his hip, coming to collect his darks and whites, Joonmyun finds him. Sehun is cursing the washing machine, pounding unceremoniously on the white metal. He’s an angry stream of striking Korean that has Joonmyun smarting, bemused as he is.

There are only 4 washing machines, 4 dryers in their laundry room. GE, energy efficient. The leftmost one, Chanyeol had named it Bowser. The one to the right had been christened Puff the Magic Dragon, by the tiny comically solemn-faced Yifan a year prior. Next to it, Maleficent, courtesy Joonmyun’s ex-girlfriend Irene. And then Bessie, the current object of Sehun’s disdain, she's temperamental, rusty, needs to be coaxed into working sometimes. Not threatened, not harangued for her stupid fucking—

"She doesn’t speak Korean," Joonmyun interrupts, shifting the basket, and Sehun jerks back with a sudden apology, fist still comically cocked. “And don’t hit her."

And Sehun blinks before flushing brightly. He tugs self-consciously at his ear, heeds his advice. The finger that had been wrangling with the coin slot, it’s now fallen limp at his side.

“She?” And Sehun is exasperated, a fistful of coins rattling as he sets them down on the white metal.

“Yes,” Joonmyun smiles. It’s wide, placating, purposefully charming. “Her name is Bessie. You have to handle her with extra care."

“Bessie?”

“Yes, she can really only handle the gentle cycle at this point. Her drum gets loose otherwise. She’s getting advanced in age.”

“That’s...stupid.”

Joonmyun smooths a judgmental crinkle in his nose, focuses on the tilt of Sehun’s eyebrows. Sehun doesn’t apologize, but he does curl shyly, the pale skin of his shoulder rolling as he shifts, rubs at the nape of his neck. He’s dressed loosely, poorly, tanktop, _tight_ purple sweats. Veritably laundry day.

“Use Bowser at the end. He can take it.” And Sehun bites his lip, shuffles, nods.

Joonmyun helps him transfer the clothes, returns the coins that Sehun had slammed against Bessie’s side. Their fingertips brush, and Sehun plays with the quarters briefly, balancing them on his large palm, rolling them between his thin fingers.

“How are you holding up?” Joonmyun starts, leaning back against the island, and Sehun sighs heavily, murmurs out something bratty about Joonmyun being too involved, an overbearing hyung, when they haven’t even really known each other that—

Joonmyun fights the urge to swat at Sehun’s arm for the comment, settles instead for curling his fingers around Sehun's bicep. Just, just too tight before releasing. Sehun’s eyes catch his, and he pouts, whines. Roles, these are familiar, predetermined. Tradition and invitation.

“With the new job?” Joonmyun continues, rising, Sehun following. “New apartment?”

Joonmyun retrieves his own clothes from the dryer, and Sehun offers to help, blinking rapidly when he sees it’s underwear and socks but recovering soon enough. He grabs a pair of plaid boxer briefs, folds them into fourths before stacking them, reaching for socks this time.

He sticks his tongue out of his mouth in concentration, deliberation. Silent, he helps, only the occasional sigh as he works out the words, maybe. Decides whether Joonmyun is worth them. Their elbows graze, gazes intersect.

"This is my first job since moving out," Sehun confides, absently pouting at a pair Joonmyun’s socks, folding and refolding, creasing the cotton. “And it’s a real job. It’s not…not scanning cards at Vons. Or flirting with coeds at the library counter. It’s a _real_ job, and it’s—harder than I thought it would be."

“Those were real jobs, too,” Joonmyun counters, and Sehun’s eyes narrow, cutting as they regard him.

“That’s not what my dad said."

Joonmyun doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. Pairs more socks, taps his fingers as he waits for Sehun to continue the conversation or kill it.

“And usually when my parents are…” Sehun waves his hand dismissively “Usually Tao supports me. You—you met Tao. Usually he’s a much better best friend, but he said it was jumping the gun. Said I was making a bad decision. Being impulsive,” he grumbles. “But Tao, once he took three weeks to buy a pair of jeans, you know, so it’s not like—not like he has any room to speak.” Sehun trails off, shoulders rising and falling in resignation. "I don’t know, it’s still disheartening, you know, when even your best friend…"

“Do you think you jumped the gun?”

Sehun sighs heavily, hesitates. "I don’t know. It’s not like Tao doesn’t have ulterior motives, you know. He wants me to move in with him. He says we should stop fighting what works. Just accept it as the Natural Order of Things."

And oh.

Joonmyun swallows once, twice. “Is Tao your boyfriend?”

Sehun’s laugh is choked off. He waves his hand wildly, scrambles to explain, knocks over a pair of boxers in his haste. “Oh no no no no no no no. There was this—I mean we came out together. He—he helped me come out. But no—I could _never_ ,” Sehun manages, definitively. “And Tao has a boyfriend."

Joonmyun doesn’t say anything for a while. And Sehun’s voice when he speaks again is harder, sharper, more guarded. His gaze is icy. “Is that a problem with you, hyung?"

“No, no,” Joonmyun is quick to clarify, pacifying with an apologetic smile. “I’m kind of—sort of, too?"

Sehun’s eyebrows smooth, and his lips pucker into a small, small oh. “Commit, hyung,” Sehun laughs after a beat. “Go hard or go home."

Sehun helps him fold the rest of his clothes, pairing Joonmyun’s socks, commenting on just _how_ many variations of argyle Joonmyun owns. Their hands brush every once in a while as they work, discuss music, the weather, inane and easy and unimportant. And maybe there’s the slightest spark of something electric and potent, something strikingly new and welcome and disarming, or maybe it’s the residual dryer static.

 

Sehun he gives him his number, agrees to coffee at some point in the future. Doesn’t follow through.

And Sehun, he becomes minute long conversations in the hallway, niceties, weekly grocery dates, intersecting lives, the occasional text message for clarification. About his AC, about what address to use for packages, about the best bars in the area.

 

Chance again has him intervening, finding a frazzled Sehun at the bottom of the stairs two Fridays later, an envelop clutched between his fists, tears maybe, stray tears that he wipes furtively with his fist, as he catches Joonmyun’s gaze.

“It’s—They asked me if I wanted to do direct deposit,” Sehun clambers to explain, “And I said ‘no,’ so I could hold the pay stub, you know.” And no he isn’t clutching that envelop; he’s cradling it.

“First real job,” Joonmyun nods.

And Sehun’s laugh is wet, his voice thick. "Yeah. I'm emotional, I guess. Want to hang this up...It's kinda dumb."

"Your first month is a big deal," Joonmyun decides, reaching down to squeeze Sehun's shoulder. And Sehun grimaces, misinterpreting it as condescension, bristling, broad shoulders raising, muscles straining beneath Joonmyun's palm as his eyebrows pinch defensively.

Joonmyun pulls back, and Sehun rises. Stiff, long, long limbs, curling defensively, awkwardly away.

"This is what adults do though," Sehun argues back, falsely casual about it but firm already, decided. "Why would I celebrate doing what everyone else does?"

"Because it’s your first time,” Joonmyun reasons, leaning against the staircase. The wood digs into his hip as he catches Sehun’s gaze again, holds it this time. "Because your parents and even your best friend thought you wouldn’t be able to do it."

Sehun bites the inside of his cheek but doesn’t look away. “Okay,” he decides, sighs, concedes. “That’s true.”

"Let’s celebrate then.”

Sehun shakes his head, insists that he doesn't need it, that Joonmyun hyung shouldn't be so worried about—

"Come on," Joonmyun interrupts. "I’m your hyung. How can you say no to this face, Sehunnie.” And it’s flirtatious persuasion that he’s trying for, not strictly speaking a doting hyung. Open posture, purposefully twinkling eyes.

Sehun makes a face, too, a deprecating sound but agrees easily enough, with a hesitant “At my place in an hour."

 

And there are boxes, still. Scribbly alphabet and number sheets, a crayon drawing hung up in a frame, that envelop pinned, too. Joonmyun catalogs them all in the brief instance before Sehun—freshly showered, clothed in something darker, more casual—closes the door behind him.

“Don’t judge me, hyung,” Sehun chides, shoving his hands into the pockets of his too-tight, dark-washed jeans. His shoulder roll, and he rocks on the heels of his feet, waiting for Joonmyun to lead the way. “Hyung,” Sehun whines when Joonmyun doesn’t immediately make to move. And the sound is pitched in such a way that Joonmyun’s legs turn to jelly, his resolve to mush.

“Okay,” he relents. “Okay."

 

Sehun had, after some prodding, named Korean barbecue as his preferred celebratory meal, and they’re seated now.

“Do you want to invite Tao?” Joonmyun asks, poking absently at the sizzling pork, and Sehun shakes his head adamantly.

“No, fuck him.” Then as he stabs a piece of kimchi, squints hard at it before shoving it in his mouth. “I’m not mad at him, though."

Amused, Joonmyun turns a slab of meat, takes a sip of water. “How’s your job been?"

"I volunteered before, you know. While I got my degree, I volunteered,” Sehun sighs. “But it’s wasn’t—wasn’t so hard."

"Is it stressful?" Joonmyun tries.

And Sehun sighs loudly in exasperation. "They don’t respect me," he laughs. "These toddlers, they don’t respect me. My assistant teacher, she’s much—better. They like me. They tell me they like me all the time. They call me Mr. Beanstalk, and the other day this boy Kyungsoo, he told me he was in love with me, that I was his Prince Teacher. But they don’t _respect_ me, hyung."

His chopstick clinks against the table, and he rubs at his face with a groan.

"I think you just have to set up procedure," Joonmyun offers. "I tutored during college, that worked. People—even tiny people—like routine, procedure. They’re still too young to not respect you, Sehun."

Sehun nods reluctantly, still touching his face, resting his hand against his cheek as he runs his own fingers absently through his hair. He squints contemplatively. And the tension is too heavy, maybe, as thick as the smoke puffing from the grill.

“You can talk about it. With me, I mean,” Joonmyun says after a beat of watching him. “Anything at all, you know, Sehun. I’m here."

Sehun nods again, less contemplative, less absent, less _sad_. “The food’s ready,” he notes.

And yes, this is a celebration.

Sehun, thin as he is, devours three portions all on his own, his lips shiny from sesame oil, eyes crinkled, cheeks crinkled, too. They are flushed with the stirrings of intoxication as they follow through with more rank forms of celebration, flagging down the waitress for bottles of soju and cups.

And Sehun, Joonmyun—in true celebratory fashion—down bottle after bottle, Sehun matching him shot for shot, a mischievous gleam in the luster of his black, black eyes. It’s temptation that has Joonmyun drinking too, too much, until there is a warm pleasant haze, a telling tingle in his lips, his chest. He’s looser limbs, looser lips, looser laughter, looser morals, too, maybe.

Sehun, Sehun is looser, too. Lithe and languid, leaning forward, looming heavily even seated like this. He giggles around the lip of his small, small glass, words slurring. Much, much more than Joonmyun’s, but Joonmyun’s word are drawling, too, pitching oddly and running into each other in his clamber to capture Sehun’s attention.

Joonmyun's mind is hazy, desire hyper-pronounced. It’s the sharpest, sharpest thing through the thick, thick fog of inebriation.

“My dongsaeng,” he trills now, pleasantly drunk, pleasantly personable, “Tell me of any problems you have. Please tell me your woes,” he repeats. "I’ll take care of you as the hyung.” _Listen and help and want you, as the hyung_.

And Sehun, he’s talking about how maybe, maybe he’s lonely. Then about his first boyfriend—not, not Tao, those makeouts, they hadn’t counted—his lips impossibly puffy and pink as he talks about how he misses being loved that way.

There’s sauce there, on the corner of Sehun’s mouth, and Joonmyun—caring hyung that he is—gropes forward to wipe it away. His hand lingers there, cupping, cradling. Intoxication makes it okay. Touching him like this, sliding down to cup Sehun’s jaw, too. Then dragging his thumb lengthwise down the column of Sehun’s trembling throat. Grazing _briefly_ at his slick, alcohol swollen lips, watching all the while, wanting all the while.

There is something, maybe something in Sehun’s eyes.

“ _Hyung_ ,” Sehun breathes, lips parting, trembling against Joonmyun’s thumb, warm and wet. And the spell is broken, a mistake avoided. The realization, it’s sharp, too. Sharper. Cold. Sobering.

“I should get you home,” Joonmyun decides, jerking back.

That something, that maybe something that Joonmyun had seen in his eyes, it disappears by the time Joonmyun catches Sehun’s eyes again. Or, maybe, maybe it was never there.

And Sehun rests his hand on Joonmyun’s shoulder, heavy and grounding and protesting, as Joonmyun pays the bill.

 

The tension, it bleeds out as they bump elbows in the dewy kiss of the warm, warm September night, shoes drunkenly scuffling against the concrete.

Sehun, he’s large, but he's a lightweight. More a lightweight than Joonmyun. Careless, weightless, aimless in his drunkenness.

He stumbles, laughs, and Joonmyun catches, guides, the younger protesting all the while about how heavy he is. How he isn’t even that _drunk_. He’s sober enough to know that Joonmyun is tiny and awful and so so imposing, hyung.

“I’m your hyung," Joonmyun reminds him, supporting his weight, and Sehun’s voice, eyes turn accusatory.

“Why aren’t you drunker?” he slur-demands. “You’re so small? Why aren’t you more of a lightweight? Where are you even—even storing all that alcohol? Your cheeks, hyung?"

His elbow grazes the crown of Joonmyun’s head, laugh now deprecating, patronizing. So tiny, he’s saying. So small, this hyung. Little, compact, pocket-sized hyung.

Joonmyun swats his hand away, and Sehun’s eyes are so bright as he giggles, brushes his thumb through Joonmyun’s bangs in clumsy affection.

So pretty, too. Travel-sized and beautiful.

And it’s back. It’s there again. The tension.

 

They hail a cab, and Sehun rests his head on Joonmyun’s shoulder.

And he’s soft, soft exhalations against Joonmyun’s collarbone, the kiss of eyelashes, the achingly featherlight pressure of parted lips, furrowed brows.

Joonmyun doesn’t want to awaken him but has to. Supports his weight up the stairs, too. He collapses into his own bed after seeing Sehun to his, stumbling over some of the boxes in his living room and kitchen, pausing by the window to turn on Xiumin’s nightlight—he gets scared, and he’ll try to chew through the bars if you don’t, hyung.

 

And the walls are thin enough for him to hear the reverb of Sehun's bass most mornings. In the past, 8bit tones of video game sessions. Before then, the pitch of a baby crying.

And now, now, drunk, drowsy as he is, he can make out a distinct, telling, sustained buzzing, muffled gasps, maybe maybe even bitten off moans.

Realization comes so so so slow, weighed down with doubt, confusion, but Joonmyun rolls over, covers his ears to block out the sound, the imagery. _No, no, no_.

 

And by the next morning, Joonmyun is almost completely successful at forgetting it, pretending that it never happened.

But Sehun, he’s an intrusion over his hungover, slow, quiet breakfast of toast, eggs. Too loud knocking. An upset mat. A too handsome face, too chipper voice.

Sehun is wearing a tank top now, too-tight jeans, hair loose and in his eyes, face soft and pillow-creased, shy, maybe even flustered. He stands there in Joonmyun’s entryway.

“Wanted to thank you. For last night, I mean,” Sehun starts, stutters, stops. "I think maybe we could—coffee, brunch.”

Joonmyun blinks around his "World's Best Uncle" mug, still clutched tightly in his grasp, and Sehun is quick to misinterpret.

"If you want," he adds hastily. "If you are so inclined, hyung."

He is, Joonmyun is quick to recover, reassure. He is, but he wants to shower first, change, too.

Sehun nods readily, easily, smile wide and earnest in the early morning light.

 

It’s long overdue, considering they are 4 weeks in, and they walk in relative silence to the café around the corner.

Sehun takes a long, long time at the counter, face pinching in somehow still-attractive deliberation as he squints at the menu, eventually copies Joonmyun’s order. A caramel orange latte.

Sehun’s eyes feel heavy on Joonmyun's face, though his smile is easy and soft. And Joonmyun thinks that maybe this means something else for him, too. Could, can read the situation correctly, call it for what it is. A date. It’s a date, the absent way Sehun’s fingers brush over his, the short, nervous chatter, the secret, shy curl of his mouth. This is _date_.

But then they’re calling out their order, and Sehun is whining out a hyung, urging Joonmyun to retrieve it. And it isn’t, Joonmyun decides. Can’t be.

Sehun puckers his lips when he takes the first sip, eyebrows creasing in poorly-disguised distaste.

“You don’t like—"

“I hate coffee,” Sehun confesses, grimacing still, rubbing his bare wrist against his mouth. “It tastes fucking awful."

“How are you an adult?” Joonmyun laughs, and Sehun grimace deepens into a scowl. "How do you get through the day?"

“Soda, energy drinks. I mean I'll have kidney stones, probably. Might not be able to father children, but at last my tongue isn’t routinely assaulted with this _poison_."

Joonmyun takes an assessing sip, too. “Sehun, it’s not—"

“Yes, it is,” he insists. “I’m gonna order something else."

He does, orders two croissant sandwiches, too. Because, well because—this is to thank Joonmyun hyung, after all.

And they fall into easy conversation. It takes only the lightest prodding for Sehun to talk about his students. His daily routine, his brightest stars, the hardest parts.

The seeming lack of purpose, Sehun confesses after a beat. The lack of concrete in this. He had hoped—you know, starting over, he had hoped his job could ground him, but it still isn’t—But he's not sad, he insists. Not a thing to be pitied. Not weak for that.

"I’m not…having a crises,” he protests around the straw of his strawberry milkshake. He’s not imploding or failing or anything like that. He’s totally okay. But his voice is pitched in a way that lets Joonmyun know that that's _exactly_ what he is. Sad, listless, upset and vulnerable as a result. So Joonmyun reaches forward to touch Sehun's hand, and Sehun threads their fingers together with a small smile, a soft "thank you hyung."

Platonic about it. Decidedly so.

Hyung-dongsaeng.

Roles predecided, the safety wrap of tradition.

 

The sun is already noon-harsh by the time they walk back home, steps in sync.

Sehun lingers at his own door before inviting Joonmyun inside. He just—just wants to show Joonmyun something.

“Xiumin,” Sehun insists, stumbling over his own shoes in the entry way of his room, coming back cradling a small, spotted thing. Carefully, he’s petting a long, slow thumb over the crown of the guinea pig’s head. “He wants to thank you, too. Introduce himself."

Sehun hands him over, and Joonmyun balances it awkwardly, tries for comforting sounds as the tiny animal burrows into his chest, makes it’s own little whistling sounds of contentment, he hopes.

Sehun reaches for a satchel as he watches Joonmyun’s stuttered attempts at handling. And Sehun insists on paying in part for Friday’s celebration as he coaxes Xiumin back into his arms. His elbow knocks against a box labelled “sneakers."

Joonmyun eyes one of the precarious towers warily, and Sehun has the temerity to look embarrassed, long lines, lithe limbs curling as he shifts uncomfortably, rubs at the back of his neck with his free hand.

And he’s striking like that, stunning like that, his dark eyebrows, his darker eyes, the harsh beautiful planes of his face. Uncomfortable as he apparently he is.

And fuck it just makes so much _sense_ kissing him then. Wanting it again, but the moment passes quickly enough. Or rather the unbearable urge does.

And Sehun is still standing in the middle of his floor, holding a small, squeaking guinea pig, insisting that he pay for his cut, even though Joonmyun is his hyung.

And Joonmyun is still staring at the promising jut of his adam’s apple. Wanting to kiss it. Suck bruises along the moles dotting his skin, silent in it.

Sehun whines again, "Hyung, don’t judge me."

Joonmyun blinks, responds. "I’m not." (He is)

“Don’t,” he insists. “Don’t, hyung."

"I’m not."

“Please, I can see it in your eyes, hyung.” And he sounds impossibly young, impossibly petulant like that, pitching his voice in a long, long whine. “I can see it. Don’t lie, and don’t _judge_ me, hyung."

"Okay, okay, but how are you still—? You have a pet. This is _dangerous_ , and I don’t think it’s healthy to still—"

“I'm kind of scared of unpacking," he confesses in a quiet rush. “It’s so final, you know."

Joonmyun nods and Sehun’s eyebrows furrow a little less, smoothing into something like precarious trust.

"This is my first time on my own," he continues after a beat. “And I just don’t want it to be…” Sehun trails off, jostles his satchel, upsets Xiumin who lets out a little whistle of distress. “It’s not a big deal either, and it’s not a good reason for you to pity me or judge me, hyung."

“I don’t," he says. Means it this time.

“Let me pay for my half then,” Sehun repeats, and Sehun needs a win, needs the reassurance. So Joonmyun relents, the bills warm in his grip.

 

That night, again, completely sober, he hears—maybe imagines again—ruffling, incessant mechanic vibration, soft, soft moans.

It’s harder to forget this time.

 

And Sehun, he’s half-formed fantasies, choked off recollections, shame, too. But on the surface, in overt terms, Sehun is the softest smile in the morning on the stairs, the soft thrum of TV static at night, repeat visits to that café, the occasional brush of fingers against his, overbright eyes burning down at his, secrets and soft confessions about classroom procedure and his insecurities as a teacher.

 

There’s a potluck with the parents three weeks later. Informal, casual, just an attempt to chat, and Sehun's stressing as he decides between a bowtie—polka dotted—and a heart-stamped necktie. Joonmyun helps him with it, both the deciding— _the bow tie makes you look too quirky, Peewee Herman_ —and the tying. Head tilted up to peer as he works the windsor knot, Joonmyun’s heart is racing at the vibration of Sehun’s soft, soft gasp, the feeling of warm skin vibrating against his grazing fingertips. The proximity, the moment, is heavy.

Joonmyun’s entire body tenses with the want to kiss him, then. Kiss him hard. And when he pulls away, avoids the tempting, terrible mistake, Sehun’s smile, it’s also strained.

It goes well, Sehun messages Joonmyun at lunch. Some of the moms flirted, some of the dads squeezed his hand too hard in an attempt to intimidate him. But it went _well_ , and Sehun sends a series of emojis. A grinning duck, a cheering bunny, a sunglasses emoji. Capslock, exclamation point heavy, “THANKS HYUNG."

_Hyung_

And Joonmyun he plays his role well. Overbearing but well-meaning, or attempting to be. Ever giving Sehun a chance to pull back from his affectionates, to protest for more than show, more than pride.

Joonmyun is the maknae in his own friendship group—begrudgingly used the coddling, being babied, patronized at Sunggyu’s, Kyuhyun’s hand—and it's nice to be needed, differed to, understood as _this_.

And Sehun, beyond that, he’s also _hot_ , sweet, sarcastic, definitively, distressingly Joonmyun’s type. Into men, too, his brain needlessly supplies.

But just being gay—kind of, in Joonmyun’s case—around each other, that won’t result in anything necessarily, Joonmyun knows. But he’s emboldened, reassured, drunk on the thought of reciprocated attraction, the too-long beat sometimes when Sehun’s touches him, the way the younger occasionally watches his mouth when he speaks.

And Sehun now he’s a weekly grocery date, a series of Kakao emojis, Chinese and Korean and Indian food runs on Fridays to unwind. Sehun, he starts letting Joonmyun pay. It almost, almost maybe feels like dating. Except for the part where he’s not. Except for the part where there is no title, no posession, no exclusivity to this.

 

And Sehun, he’s angst, he’s want, he’s testing the waters but still being too fucking scared to act.

 

Two weeks later has Joonmyun stepping into the building manager’s for a soda, spotting Sehun there.

There are those bead maze toys, the kind they have at Sehun is playing with it as he waits, making soft conversation with tiny, tiny Lu Han, Wing 4, Apartment 201.

Joonmyun grins in greeting, and Sehun straightens as he’s called. He accepts a package. They walk back together.

The return address is in Hangul, and Joonmyun motions to it with his thumb.

“What kind package is it?” he asks, and Sehun regards him warily.

“Private."

“Kpop?” Joonmyun guesses, teasing.

“Why did Tao have to tell you?” he groans loudly, in exasperation, walking slightly faster, using his long legs to his advantage as Joonmyun scrambles to keep up.

“You could just go to Ktown, you know,” he offers. “Might be cheaper."

“No, I checked,” Sehun counters. “They didn’t have this.”

Joonmyun’s grin widens, and Sehun’s smile is strained.

"It’s also a drama," he cuts in. "Like, I mean, that’s popular entertainment. Keeps me up to date with my Korean. Connects me to my culture. That’s important. Don’t tell me that’s not important, hyung."

They’re nearing the door for their suite, opening it, going up the stairs.

"It’s fine, you don’t have to—"

"It’s not even one of those romantic dramas. Tao orders romantic Chinese dramas all the time. But this isn’t even that. It’s about sports, overcoming an injury to get back into playing soccer. I've been streaming it on my laptop for the past year. It’s not some cheesy romantic drama with a first and second lead, okay?” And Sehun, as if to prove his point, is motioning Joonmyun inside.

Sehun stumbles over a tower of boxes in search of scissors, elects after a beat to use his keys instead. He wrestles the box open.

There’s a CD that he cradles briefly, an attractive, metallic-heavy group of men on the cover. Then bubblewrap. The DVD in question. It’s a box set. And the couple on the front—there’s a couple on the front—they’re back to back, twin smiles. It’s damning. And Sehun flushes, fumbles to explain.

“It’s just one of the arcs,” he insists. “Why is that—People fall in love all the time. That doesn’t mean that that’s what the story is about. It doesn’t invalidate the plot.” He grips the box set to his chest.

“Sehun, it’s fine. I don’t—"

“No, hyung, I promise. It’s really not just about Jungah and Baekhyun. It’s so much more than that. Marketing, the marketing just has to make it appeal to...” His knuckles drag along the spine, ruefully. And there’s that pout again. Joonmyun really wants to kiss it away. "Watch it with me,” Sehun decides.

“Sehun, I really don’t—"

“No, hyung. You’re misinterpreting me. And as a hyung, you really shouldn’t do that. Shouldn’t be cruel with your dongsaeng. Be kind with me. Be indulgent with me.” He puckers his lips in a pointedly persuasive point.

He motions to his plaid futon, stumbles over a box to get to his DVD player. He plops down next to him when Joonmyun relents.

“It’s 16 episodes,” Sehun sighs. “It’s beautiful."

 

Joonmyun’s stomach starts to grumble around the third episode—it _is_ romance-heavy, Sehuns objecions duly noted—and becomes unbearable midway through the fourth.

Sehun pauses the DVD—Jungah, Baekhyun, they’re kissing again—orders food, starts it again.

And they stop kissing, are arguing. It’s too soon, Jungah is insisting. It’s too soon, and she can’t see him hurt himself any longer.

The pizza arrives, and they eat it straight from the box, elbows bumping, grease bleeding onto their fingertips, gazes frequently intersecting.

They’re at a little more than 25% of the drama at this point, and Sehun wants to know Joonmyun’s honest assessment. He turns in his seat, long legs folded underneath him as he asks. And Sehun listens, watching him carefully, eyebrows pitched up in interest as Joonmyun speaks. Sehun's eyes flicker downwards once, twice, before remaining there.

And quite abruptly, suddenly—as Joonmyun is noting how, yeah it’s good to have somebody to unpack your problems to, that Baekhyun, he’d really made a good choice with Jungah and maybe it wasn’t—Sehun leans forward to kiss him, lips grazing his in something chaste, soft, not not unwelcome. Sehun’s hands are tense at his side.

And Sehun kisses how he does everything. Too sudden and then too stiff, apologetic. So it's Joonmyun that has to pull him closer after recovering, coaxing his mouth open, gliding his tongue inside to get a taste, tilting his head to deepen the angle.

Sehun, though, he follows through easy enough. And Sehun, thankfully, deliciously, headily, he’s fast on his feet, good with his hands, eager with his fingers, nimble now though shaking, affected. He wraps them tightly around Joonmyun's waist, drags him forward until Joonmyun is pratically straddling Sehun’s lap. He fists his hands into Sehun’s shirt, bracing himself on Sehun’s broad, broad shoulders as he grinds down onto the towering solidity of Sehun’s warm body.

Long, long fingers drag down Joonmyun’s back, dig into his denimed ass, urging him even harder. Sehun’s grip is hard, so hard as he moans into Joonmyun’s mouth, sucks on his tongue. And that's nice, too, grinding against him and collecting every soft, soft sound, heady. He's dizzy at every reciprocated touch.

Sehun is hardening against Joonmyun's own straining denim, and this is moving much faster than he thought it would. But Sehun is just exactly what he wants, especially like this. Joonmyun rocks down harder, faster, dragging purposefully against the telling, swelling, distinct pressure of Sehun’s erection. Sehun moans even louder, pants as he pulls away.

And his futon is shaking, rickety with the force of their colliding hips as Joonmyun’s hands shift to drag over the cottoned pucker of Sehun’s nipples through his tight shirt, gripping his hips in turn, fingers clenching as he pulls away to pant against Sehun’s neck.

“Fuck,” he manages, worrying his mouth against the pale, tender skin at Sehun’s throat, painting thoroughly, dragging his teeth against a mole, scraping against his adam’s apple, pressing down even harder all the while, seeking the perfect, perfect, heated friction of Sehun’s cock even through the layers of fabric.

Joonmyun drags his mouth down to Sehun’s shoulder, lips catching on the material of his shirt as he bites down, and Sehun moans the loudest he has at that, shuddering bodily. And Joonmyun pauses briefly to watch Sehun’s face contort with pleasure, lips swollen and eyebrows puckered—gorgeous, so gorgeous—as he whines for Joonmyun to keep going.

Joonmyun leans back—just, just far back enough—balanced on Sehun’s taut thighs for support now, moaning as Sehun squeezes his hips fucking _hard_ , coaxing, voice cajoling. “Tiny, beautiful hyung, please."

Then it’s flustered fumblings, tense tugs on Sehun’s zipper, buttons, tented cotton, and yes, _yes_ more skin, his for the taking.

Sehun’s cock, as all parts of him, it’s too large, so cute, so fucking easy to _want_ , gorgeous to behold.

Joonmyun swallows down a groan when Sehun urges him to just _please_ , hyung. All drawn out and breathy and beautiful.

And Joonmyun gropes for a bottle of hand lotion—peaches and cream lotion—wrestling it open enough to coat his hand as he takes Sehun into his grip. And Sehun’s arms are heavy, demanding around Joonmyun’s shoulders as he fucks upwards, moaning heavily, too. His fingers dig crescents into Joonmyun’s shoulders, and Joonmyun curses reverently, pawing briefly at his own pants to tug his own erection free, relieving the aching, aching pressure, before focusing on the task at hand anew.

Sehun’s cock is heavy and pulsing in his grip. He strokes fast, hard from the start. He braces his weight on one broad, steady shoulder, to get it right.

And it’s so so so so so right.

Sehun drags his lips down the column of Joonmyun’s throat, every word, every sound a heady, heady vibration against hypersenstive skin.

Sehun is still speaking somehow, babbling mostly, breathy, lilting, hot and heavy, filthy, panting out the most delicious, unsettling praises about how good Joonmyun’s cock feels, how hard he is for it, hyung. How he’s thought about this, about Joonmyun’s fingers, lips, cock, how the last time he touched himself, he kept imagining—

Sehun chokes on his breath as Joonmyun falls forward to fit them both in his fist, the crown of his cock catching against Sehun’s own. And Joonmyun kisses him again, swallowing down his helpless, heady, heady moans.

He shudders all the while at the filthiness, the sloppiness of the squelches, the moans, the delicious drag up and against his cock.

It’s so good. So fucking _good_.

Too good, too fucking good as Sehun stutters out a moan, bites down hard on Joonmyun’s bottom lip, cock all the while so hot and hard and solid against his own.

And the pleasure is staggering, has his hips jerking mindlessly against the warm cradle of Sehun’s pliant body. Fast, so fast, it builds and builds and builds before cresting, intense and overwhelming.

Joonmyun bites out his orgasm on the sharp sharp jut of Sehun's neck as his grinds stutter, cock spurts up up up towards the bunched up fabric of Sehun’s shirt. Joonmyun slackens briefly, mindlessly against Sehun, sated, exhausted.

So good, it’s so good.

But first, fuck, he’d come first.

He turns to nose along Sehun’s throat, fumbling briefly before tightening his fist, groaning at the loud, loud vibration of Sehun’s moan against his lips, the way Sehun surges upwards towards the pressure. It’s impossibly hot, has Joonmyun all the more eager to see this through.

And Sehun, he’s sharp angles, a bared throat, gasped moans, rolling hips, eager lips, fingers, limbs.

One, two long, luxurious strokes, one circling thumb along the crown of his cock, and Sehun is coming, gasping long long long as he tenses sharply, shatters and shudders beautifully at Joonmyun’s fingers, before Joonmyun’s eyes.

It takes them a while—a long, long while—to stop panting.

Sehun drapes his arms around Joonmyun’s shoulders when the older makes to move, dragging him back with a strained, disbelieving groan. “Haven’t done that for a while," Sehun laughs, breathless, breathtaking as he collapses back, arms pounding against an open box, upturning its contents.

Joonmyun, thrumming with pleasure as he is, doesn’t miss the action, fight the bubble of nagging chiding in his throat. “You really need to,” he starts. And Sehun groans, the pitch higher, more drawn out than any of the sounds he’s been letting out for the past 15 minutes. But still somehow beautiful, endearing, welcome.

“I will," Sehun grumbles, petulantly, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “Fuck, let me appreciate the afterglow for a bit, hyung."

“I can help,” Joonmyun adds, and Sehun groans again, softer now, arms looping around Joonmyun’s shoulders, dragging him forward for a kiss. Joonmyun relents so so easy, melts into him with a soft, soft moan.

 

And Sehun, he’s soft endearments, held hands, breathless heartstutering explorations of more. Later, later, rich rich bonedeep orgasms, pants for more again _more_.

**Author's Note:**

> crossposting from 2015!!!!


End file.
